


A Tradition of Pride

by TsarinaTorment



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:52:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TsarinaTorment/pseuds/TsarinaTorment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When designing the new symbol to represent the Council, Clary struggles to find a symbol to represent the vampires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tradition of Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own _The Mortal Instruments_

Clary frowned, staring at the paper in front of her. It was almost finished, almost but not quite. There was one space, one symbol missing, yet to be drawn, but she couldn't think of it. In this situation, her usual response was to scrunch up the paper and throw it away, only to begin anew, but that wasn't possible here. Well, it was, but she would only keep meeting the same block again and again, and this was not a piece of art she could just abandon.

Well, technically she could, but she didn't want to. It was an honour to be asked to draw the new insignia for the Council, a fresh emblem to represent the new beginnings, the start of an alliance she hoped would last far longer than the previous one had. For the first time, Downworlders had a seat each on the Council, and she wanted to represent that in this artwork.

It had been easy to start with. The symbol of the Nephilim was already well known, and it had not taken her long to draw it. Then it had got harder, although not by much. Creating a symbol to represent each of the four seats held by Downworlders was a great responsibility, and she did not want to pick something wrong. The werewolves had been easy – they drew their power from the full moon, which now proudly displayed itself on the page, alongside the Nephilim's crest. Warlocks and the Fae Folk had been harder, but she was confident that her selections of a spellbook and a four leaved clover were appropriate. Magnus had certainly seemed to think so, when he'd come over to visit Alec – again – and crept up behind her to see what she was drawing. Not that he didn't already know, of course, and his presence hadn't been entirely welcome – it was her drawing, and it wasn't finished yet – although it was relieving to know that he thought his symbol accurate.

No, what was troubling her, the empty space that mocked her artist's block, her lack of imagination in just this one thing, was the vampires. They were the sole reason for numerous scrumpled sheets in the corner, where she'd tried to draw something but it hadn't worked. Nothing that she had tried fit, then again, she was stumped for ideas. She'd even, in a fit of desperation, tried Simon's jokey idea of a bloody fang. That had been eliminated almost before she'd finished drawing it. Compared to the peaceful symbols of the others, it looked far too violent. She didn't want to show the vampires as violent, even if violence and cruelty were the only things she really knew to associate with them.

Perhaps that was her problem. She didn't know the vampires like she did the others, and her view of them was tainted because of what had happened to Simon. They'd wanted him dead, because he was different. They were stoic, traditional and unchanging, and the difference of Simon didn't sit well with them.

Now, if only she could find a symbol for that tradition, that unchanging nature.

Sitting here, staring at the paper, was doing her no favours. Her mind was running in circles, trying desperately to think of something when nothing was coming to her. Artist's block was no-one's friend, and as much as she wanted to get this done now, it wasn't happening. She needed a break.

Slipping the unfinished design under another sketchbook, hidden from the casual eye – hardly anyone in the house had a 'causal' eye but maybe they'd at least respect her privacy, she hoped – she stood, pulling on boots and the green jacket Luke had given her what felt like worlds ago.

It was hard to believe how quickly her life had changed, from a normal school girl whose main concern was hanging out with Simon and lecturing him and Eric on suitable band names, to a Shadowhunter with more angel blood in her than any other, save perhaps her wonderful boyfriend.

She should go see Jace, she knew, but it didn't feel right. He was a musician, yes, but not an artist and she didn't think his wit, or the gentler words he reserved just for her, would help her out of it. She certainly couldn't ask him what represented a vampire. He'd probably say the same thing as Simon. There was no love lost between him and the vampires, really.

Her feet, unguided by her mind, led her towards the edge of the city. It was dark, the moon hiding from view, leaving only the stars to guide her, once she was away from the glare of the Witchlights. Settling herself down in the trees, just beyond the wards, she sighed, staring up at the sky. Perhaps the pressure was too much. Perhaps she should turn down the request after all and hand it over to her mother. Jocelyn was an equally talented artist – moreso, if you asked Clary – and had been a Shadowhunter for far longer. She would be more suited for it.

No, she told herself. She had accepted it, and she would see it through. Clary Fray was not a quitter, even if her name wasn't technically Clary Fray any more. Clarissa Morgenstern. The name still felt unfamiliar, like a glove that didn't quite fit, although she knew it should. Perhaps she was just putting her fingers in the wrong holes, but the knowledge didn't make it any easier to accept that her name wasn't what she'd thought it was.

She didn't like change, she decided. Well, she liked what had happened, but that didn't mean she didn't wish she'd grown up in this world, rather than a shocking introduction to it as a teenager. She liked what had become of the change, but not the change itself. Perhaps that was what the vampires needed to learn to do. Perhaps not embrace the change itself, but accept the results of it. But no, the vampires seemed far too stuck in their ways to do that, and she had no intention of trying to make them listen. More than any of the other Downworlders, they scared her. Werewolves had always been kind to her – thanks to Luke, she knew – and while both Warlocks and Fae had been less open, more confusing, she still knew more or less what to expect from them, and they'd never caused her harm.

Vampires, on the other hand. They had killed her best friend, although to look at Simon you certainly wouldn't think he was dead. She remembered the terror of Hotel Dumort clearly, as Raphael had ordered their deaths. Alone out of all the Downworlders, they were the only ones she truly feared.

"Nephilim rarely leave the safety of their wards, particularly when unarmed," a quiet voice commented and she looked up in surprise. The vampire she had just been thinking about was standing there. She hadn't heard him arrive, then again, perhaps he had been there first and she hadn't seen him.

Either way, the lack of warning unnerved her.

"Valentine's gone," she said, keeping a wary eye on him. "And I'm not that far out."

"Far enough that no-one would hear you scream," Raphael said idly, still standing next to her. She knew that when most saw him – a young teenager with an angel face – they thought him harmless. Having seen two angels herself she had to admit that the description wasn't totally accurate; Raphael was hardly an angel, although still beautiful. She would compare him more to Sebastian – Jonathan. Beautiful, but in the way that could and would kill you if given half the chance.

She didn't feel safe any more.

"Are you going to make me scream?" she asked instead, a challenging look in her eyes that she knew wouldn't faze him at all. If he wanted her dead there was little she could do about it.

He sat down, not quite beside her but not that far away, either.

"It is rare to see a Nephilim outside the safety of their wards," he said, repeating his earlier greeting. Now that he was sitting, not that it really made a difference in the threat levels, Clary could hear the curiosity. That was something she'd forgotten about Raphael, and she wondered if it was standard among vampires to be so interested in the minds of mortals. It was as if he'd forgotten what being human was like.

Perhaps he had – she had no way of knowing just how long he'd looked like he'd just reached puberty.

"I wanted to think," she admitted.

"And you could not do that within Alicante?" Raphael asked, not looking at her. He hadn't looked at her since he'd made his presence known, she realised. Then again, he didn't need to. Not with his superhuman senses.

"Being surrounded by Nephilim isn't helpful when you're trying to think about something that's not Nephilim," Clary replied, taking the advantage she had to study him.

He wasn't white, like most vampires, although she assumed that if he were to stand next to a human of the same ethnicity he would look it. What was he, anyway? Spanish, perhaps. Maybe Mexican. Certainly Spanish was his mother tongue. She wondered how long it had taken him to learn to speak English so fluently that he'd even lost his accent, more or less. It was a subtle reminder that he was far older than he looked.

His eyes were dark, although whether black or merely brown she couldn't tell, and his black hair curled around his face in a way that was entrancing. She wondered if he had always been so beautiful or, like Simon, if being Turned had enhanced his features into the current beauty.

"If you want a vampire to study, perhaps it would be better to study your friend," he said suddenly. She jumped. Of course he'd known that she was staring. "Not everyone takes so kindly to being scrutinised. What is it you are looking for?"

She didn't answer, or look away, although her gaze turned from curious to wary. She was afraid to look away, in case she lost him. He was a killer and her only safety was to know where he was.

After a moment of silence, in which dark orbs turned to look at her, aged eyes still shining with a curiosity she'd associate more with a child, she realised that the answer to her problem was, potentially, in front of her.

"What is a vampire?" she asked him. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion.

"Your friend is a vampire," he said. "You have been inside our home – one of few humans to leave alive – and you have been educated by both Nephilim and Magnus Bane on the matter. You know better than many what a vampire is."

Despite the tone, Clary could see the confusion, and the curiosity still burning inside him.

"I know the theory," she admitted. "But it's not enough."

"Why is it not enough?" he demanded. "You are not one of us. You do not need to know." The unchanging aspect, the one that hated anything it didn't understand, was showing through. It was probably stupid, but Clary decided to keep talking.

"How can I finish a crest if I don't know what it represents?" she asked. The silence felt shocked, just for a moment, before it turned calculating. She continued to explain. This was her one chance, she realised, and it wasn't going to slip away from her. "I'm the one that's designing a new insignia for the Council. It's not just made up of Nephilim any more, and I want to show that. There's a moon for the werewolves, a spellbook for the warlocks, and a clover for the fae. But I don't know what would be best to represent the vampires, and I think it's because I don't understand you."

"Your view of the Night Children is clouded by the Daylighter," Raphael said after a long silence, so long that Clary had thought he wouldn't answer. "The only vampire you interact with considers himself to still be human. He has yet to accept that he is dead." Clary couldn't deny it. "You say that you do not understand us. Perhaps your best course of action would be to think about what you do know, when you remove your friend from the picture."

"You don't like change," Clary said immediately. "You didn't like it when Simon could walk in the daylight. You think yourselves superior to humans, but despite that we still intrigue you."

Dark eyes narrowed further.

"You sound as if you think you know me, not us," he said, somewhat stiffly.

"Aside from Simon, you're the only vampire I've ever spoken to," Clary reminded him. Despite the stiffness, he still managed to look elegant as he inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"And therein lies your problem," he said, looking up at the sky again. "You cannot base something meant to represent us as a whole on just one individual."

"Then tell me," Clary said. "What is a vampire? What are you, as a whole? I can't go round talking to hundreds of vampires, not in the time I have."

Raphael laid himself back on the ground, looking up at the sky.

"We are a proud race," he said after a moment. "You cannot comprehend us because you are not one of us, and have no wish to join our ranks. When you live lives as long as we do, change is an unwanted constant. Our environment changes, the humans that we do know, be they what was once our family or humans that willingly gave us their blood in return for protection. They all fade and die. Vampires should stick to the night. We do not belong in the day, for there are even more changes there. That is why your friend should not exist, and why, had I the chance, he would no longer exist."

He knew she was the one that had Marked Simon.

"But perhaps the main thing to remember is that we are the children of the night," Raphael continued, looking straight up, still. "We stalk the night and sleep during the day."

Clary wondered why he'd said that. Everyone knew that about vampires, even if they thought they only existed in fiction. Then she looked up.

The sky hadn't changed since she'd emerged from her room. The moon was still hidden, with only the stars shining down from above. She looked across at him again, a lean black shadow on the grass, illuminated only by the unwavering light of the stars.

Before she registered it, she had leapt to her feet, charging back into the city and her room with no thought for the vampire she'd just abandoned, not that he minded, probably.

Pulling the paper towards her again and wielding her pencil with the practiced ease of one that had been drawing all her life, as she had, strokes appeared in the blank space, simple, yet elegant. Much like vampires themselves.

Putting the pencil down, she surveyed it for a moment, waiting for the sense of wrongness to hit, as it had all the previous times, but there was none.

"Perfect," she finally allowed herself to breathe. "It's perfect."

Nestled in what was once an infuriating blank space was a star, proud and unchanging, just like the vampires it represented.


End file.
